Right, then, where was I? Oh, yeah: botfly larvae. I have a sick...I mean, really goddamn sick...fascination with parasites. I am fascinated with them, impulsively look at pictures and descriptions of their lives and habits. I am especially fond...if that can be said of something that I loathe and want to eradicate...of worm-type creatures that live on or under human skin.
Nah. Just kidding.
I was just enjoying a cup of this coffee...it's from a bunch of beans that my good friend Ryan sent from the pacific northwest...and I was contemplating the lifespan of the botfly, when it hit me: I have no idea how to communicate any of this in a spoken conversation without invoking some deep and distant artifact of my past that involves the words "I wrote at this website" and "yeah, we don't know whether it is 'who-see' or 'hussy' though I just call it 'hulver's' in my head because, well, the guy's name is hulver."
Now, as a stumbling block to polite conversation, that one is second to none. Because at that point, you've had to so grossly overexplain yourself that the person listening...if they are a casual acquaintance and not, say, a life partner who has had to suffer your fdoolishness gladly for the last 10 years because you're such a putz...has at this point sort of glazed over and is internally saying "ok, whatever, this guy is one of those bloggers I read about."
And I'm not, y'all know that. I ain't LiveJournal-ing here. I'm not talking about politics. Hell, I even once or twice leaned toward fiction pretty hard. And I certainly haven't mentioned the crimes that the Hezbollah and the Zionists are bringing upon themselves and humanity. So how the heck do I...I mean, you know?
What the hell am I? What is this? It's not like I get paid to be here, and I certainly don't always do it for fun. There are times when I write just because if I don't write something, I'm gonna' have to, I dunno, talk. And no-one wants that; I literally cannot be shut up.
So I write. And it's not like the journal I keep, my little Moleskine sketchbook. It's not like the dialog that remains private to me. It's not the tousands of pages of handwritten screeds that I maintain, they date back to my youth. No, I'm not diarizing here, yet when I describe it to people? I tell them "yeah, it's a diary site, sort of," but they have no idea what scoop is or what kuro5hin used to be and so they can't relate Diary to anything not Ponies and Slumber Parties and as soon as I say "more of an electronic journal" they either think "blogger!" or they think "emo adultlescent!"
So, fuck. I mean, I spend a lot of time here. Not all my time, certainly, but a lot of my time. I read about y'all, and I love every word. In the olden days, I'd be all about writing letters with distinction and flair and maybe even those little crayola-wax seals. But right now I am here, looking in on y'all who I consider, all of you, especially those of you who are so damn quiet all the time, I consider you friends.
Not "acquaintences" and not "users" but friends. Even those of you who hate the way I write and can't stand me, I dig ya.
Excuse me while I take a quick walk and totally forget what I was talking about.
Now I have to go to the doctor. But anyhow, do me a favor, let's figure out a way of referring to one anothet that doesn't require a goddamn Wikipedia reference. What are you to me?
What am I to you? And, yeah, I know I am blix to most of you and not the more formal blixco or the less formal jason, but beside that...what?
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